“It seems incredible that so many dishonest people should be in the world,” said Peace, in a deprecating tone. “It is indeed a most melancholy reflection.”
Then, addressing himself to the man on the bank, he said, in a careless way—
“And where is this mill situated, sir?”
“On the bank of the Trent, about five miles from here, or a little less, perhaps.”
“Dear me, I’m very sorry to hear it. And have they any clue to the robbers?”
“None at present, I believe.”
“But they will have. Oh, they will have, let us hope,” remarked Peace, with well-simulated sympathy.
“Hope told a flattering tale, my friend,” said the old getleman, who was of a cynical turn of mind. “The chances are that they will never find out the culprit or culprits—they never do. The police are sure to go on the wrong scent.”
“Perhaps it was some one on the premises who committed the robbery?” suggested Peace.
“Very likely, sir—nothing more likely,” cried the old gentleman, as he pulled out his line and rebaited his hook.